Shift

Santiago Iglesia was a bastard. There was no denying his heritage, the father he barely remembered and his unwed mother. They had done the best that any sick family could, rotting him away from the inside until he had escaped the crosshairs of pain pinned on the center of his chest. He had escaped the label years ago, though, along with every other curse that should have followed his form through life as brandings pressed into his skin, distorting as he grew older but never fully disappearing. Sebastian Faulkes, however, with a thick layer of makeup had hidden every scar so far down that the only labels that stuck were those the tabloids crafted. But for Miguel, the two were so intertwined that out of all the curses that welled in his mind, bastard never took a literal meaning. It simply gained a new definition, his brother.

Miguel's brother to him was a bastard, and it was that thought at the forefront of his mind as he wandered alone through Zhengzhou.

Darkness wrapped around the city, more than any ordinary night. This night it was not only obscured by a heavy cloud cover, but by the thick, looming shadow of an island hanging above. The sight as a whole would have been terrifying on its own, but it felt almost artificial to Miguel as his eyes glanced over the edge of the rescue zone. Harsh flood lights threw unrealistic rays across the ground, leaving some houses in complete darkness and others practically gleaming. Cars moving through the checkpoint were routine in their motion, a start, a stop, and a start again as they all jerked in unison. Large cranes, tethered to the bottom of the mysterious citadel, were the only things keeping the floating island from slamming straight into the Earth. All of it was laid out as if they were in a science fiction movie, which was a genre that Miguel had never been a fan of.

His feet scuffed over a long, empty, asphalt street. Each footprint was made on either side of the yellow stripe in the middle. No cars traveled along the empty roads, and it didn't matter to walk along the sidewalk or in the center as long as he kept moving. His eyes grazed over the empty windows and neon signs left on inside. The evacuation had begun under a day ago, but there were only a few hours left until the weight became too much and the citadel above was allowed to lower. Even now, between the gaps in the wired netting Miguel could see it inching closer. Blue lights danced across the bottom of its surface, and it was beginning to scrap the top of the tallest buildings. Soft echos of crunching metal fell from the high atmosphere and pieces no bigger than the size of a pen dropped at alarming speeds.

The only reason anyone was allowed beneath the steadily moving extraterrestrial city was in hopes of clearing Zhengzhou. The main Rescue agents had moved through already, and those with abilities were on a final run through, checking each sector of the city as fast as they could. Miguel's own mission was less dire. He had no way to help those that were trying to escape, his powers were neither speed nor strength. All he was good at was hiding when one of the helicopters flew by, the spotlight flashing over the road and lighting up a wide circle of empty asphalt before disappearing as the pilot turned to check another location. Only a few citizens were left closer to the inner city, but it wasn't enough that their attention hadn't begun to diverge away from the rescue effort and more toward future prevention tactics.

A perimeter past the city limits was in the process of being constructed, and some heroes that weren't part of the Rescue division had entered the evacuated city in hopes of placing a few devices near the landing site, little things to "help" in case of a disaster. It'd been the Americans idea, and while Miguel was no longer surprised by his country's love of dangerous explosives, it didn't feel right to watch them prepare for such a grim outcome. Admittedly, Miguel shouldn't have been watching at all. He should have been back out past the floodlights, past the cars, past the perimeter being set up. As far as Intel was concerned, there was nothing left to do but wait until they could actually harvest some information when the citadel landed. Unfortunately, Miguel had never been a good listener.

The boy moved between shadows, following the path that he knew those doing a final sweep through were taking. He was hoping to find Santiago, as surprised as he was to admit it to himself. His brother was out among with some of the Rescue agents, trying to appear like a proper hero. The thought was still a maggot in Miguel's brain, the bitter idea that he was far from any type of hero eating away at the good memories that'd begun to resurface. He is nothing but an idiot, the reminder left his tongue bitter but his heart empty. Any malice laced on his tongue had dissolved for a longing to just see his brother again, to get up close. He doesn't even remember you exist.

The words sent a flicker through Miguel's form, a momentary lapse in his invisibility. The ripple passed over his skin and the boy's colors returned to normal. He'd always been a pessimist, but lately, it felt different. Less sure of his own thoughts, the boy couldn't help but wonder if it was something to do with the psychic disturbance being emitted. No seas estúpido. He knows you exist. Turning the corner, Miguel's eyes found a new street. It was as empty as the one before it, with a cool breeze blowing in from the opposite end as more empty windows caught his passing reflection and the island groaned from above. In the corner of the window, Miguel's eyes caught hold of a second image. The reflection was blinding white but a dark shade of blue hid behind it as the unmistakable sight of lightning appeared down the next street. The question is if he cares.

With a deep breath, the boy turned to follow the column of blue, radiant light that was now dimming from the space it struck in the sky. A soft glow hid beneath the citadel's thrusters, blending into the cloud cover as a faint flag for his younger brother to follow. Without a plan to fall back on or even one leading the way, the boy pushed his feet down the alleyway connecting him to the next street.

"Hey, Shift." The words almost halted Miguel dead. He paused, heart hammering in his chest and eyes wiping around before he placed the voice. Cheeks reddening from embarrassment, he began moving again, hoodie pulled a bit tighter over his head than he'd been wearing it before, regardless that no one could see him. "Where are you now? Palmer is looking for you."

The words were directed over the headset jammed in his, something that Miguel had warmed up to as his main source of interaction with SHADR but just as easily blanked in when it was not in use. Normally, the voice was that of the short-tempered, British woman who checked in on time every hour as instructed. On rare occasions, Miguel would get Pierre instead. The man was relatively nice if not a bit uncomfortable using the system, but his accent was thick and painful for Miguel to decipher. The boy often forced Pierre to repeat the updates he gave, so that by the third or fourth try it was clear enough for him to grasp the general concept. Today, however, he was stuck with Epoch. His check-in status was erratic as his powers and even now, he left his own channel open, forcing the seventeen-year-old to be subjected to background chewing that resembled the grinding down of rocks.

Sighing, Miguel let his gaze wander up to the street sign nearest him as he rounded another corner. It took half a minute of squinting to remember that he couldn't have pronounced the names if he tried. Not that it would have mattered, the answer still would have given him away. Instead, with a flippant admission, he answered, "I'm beneath the Citadel."

There was a sputtering and a choking noise accompanied by the inhalation of cracker dust. "You're what?" The sudden increase in volume had Miguel pulling the headset a few inches away from his ear to save himself from permanent damage. "You're not supposed to be there."

"Yeah, well—" A second streak of lightning raced up toward the sky, this time much closer to Miguel. It cut the boy off as he watched it arc up into the air and smash against the base of the citadel. "¿Viste que?" he asked, barely acknowledging the words that sputtered out of his own lips as he was suddenly racing toward the bolt of lightning.

Something's wrong. The knowledge was an unexplainable pang in his gut as he rushed to reach the end of the street and turn onto the next block where Santiago's lightning had shot from. He skidded onto it, breath raging in and out of his thin chest as he caught sight of the unmistakable uniform of Nightbolt. A black mask was turned facing away from him, surging with blue sparks that ran up and down the length of his brother's arms. Santiago's eyes were turned up, watching the bottom of the citadel where a shape moved. It was too far for Miguel to make out anything but the silhouette, but suddenly it clicked as to what he'd been shooting at as the shadow clambered across the bottom and toward one of the anchoring points.

"You're going to have to—" Epoch's voice hit Miguel for only a moment and then stopped. There was no static, no cut out, but it was impossible to tell if the boy had stopped because he saw what was happening or if he had disappeared into another plane completely.

One of the cables connected to the cranes that was supporting the citadel snapped. Sudden and violet, the metal broke and flew through the air. It landed far on the other side of a cluster of buildings, but with it, a whole side of the island was sent careening down. Smashing straight into a part of the town, toppling towers and crushing them into the ground in a single motion that shook the ground, Miguel was sent tumbling forward. He caught himself on his hands and knees, pain welling at the sights that had hit the asphalt full force as he tried to reorient himself. Gazing around desperately, the boy caught sight of his older brother.

Blood oozed down Santiago's face, but what was more terrifying was the shadow looming above them. Crashing rubble and shattering glass exploded overhead as a building broke free of its foundation and was sent lurching forward. Panicked, shaking, Miguel shoved himself onto his knees, forgetting to control himself as he tackled his brother full force.

The two of them went tumbling, passing through the rubble with the help of Miguel's powers as if the building was only wind. It crumbled around them, smashing to the ground and shattering into pieces as Miguel's arms gave out beneath him. His chest landed on top of another, rising and falling as fast as his own, and as his eyelashes batted away the soot and concrete dust, his eyes were met by his brother's.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pierre Tesar

DID NOT HAND IN

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rilla Manco

DID NOT HAND IN

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Epoch

Throughout my twenty-four years and some odd months of knowing Hayes, I've come to describe him as an overly cautious specimen, and to put it like that is generous. I would call him intelligent, but not too much so; aware of himself, but not too much so; paranoid, a bit too much so. I might call him reserved every now and again, too, but easily disturbed? No, not that one. He may be a sensitive man, yes, and he may focus too keenly on how his words are being received, but in a crisis I don't believe I've ever seen him come out too changed from the experience.

Whatever happened with The Raven in London has most definitely changed him. He walks the perimeter of the citadel in Zhengzhou, dejected and stiff, and if he's not rigid-backed, he's slouched over, caught in his own head when he should be paying attention to his surroundings. Who knows when one of these windows might just bust and rain stained glass upon his head, bringing with it some abomination from the skies?

I can't let him remain like this. I need to pull him out of this reverie. Host, I implore you to set aside what's bothering you and attend to your duties in full. The manner of the task itself is full of uncertainty and trepidation. While it's best you don't exhibit those qualities in excess, I would appreciate if you'd show that you still have at least a sliver of self-preservation left in you.

I expect a retort, a snarky comment, even a tired, "Shut up," but much to my surprise, I get nothing. He simply continues walking the perimeter, barely tuned in to what lurks in the shadows of the night around him. Really, the only thing ensuring he doesn't trip over his own feet is the light of the city abolishing a pitch-black sky and his own adjustment to the darkness. He was quite thrilled when the sun started to set, I think, because he's been using it to not-so-subtly mope in ever since.

Mope is a strong word. I know the images that flash through his mind, the fluttering birds and collapse of body and wing. I know the occasional sting that rushes through the stitches on his cheek, and I've noticed the way he turns away from people when they're speaking to him. Maybe this is another reason he's glad the sun has set.

It gives him enough power that, when he turns the corner towards the front of the citadel, he's able to walk forward on steady feet and project his voice towards the lot situated several yards away from the door. "Some of you can get some shut-eye. I'll take someone's watch."

They look up at him from the ground, the much taller, much stronger four. Their gazes are quick to float amongst themselves, sharing unspoken words, and then they glance up at him again, unsure. He picks up on this; he sees their doubt. "You can't all take watch all day and all night. You'll croak from exhaustion when the time actually comes to kick ass. One of you, maybe even two, need to sleep." He finally appeals to his own drainage, squeezing his eyes to a close and sighing. "Don't make me have to walk back around this building and find more dead team members that I've known for years now."

A couple of them seem moved by his last statement, and with little argument, two rise from their place on the ground and begin walking back towards a temporary base they've made that's close enough to rise to the call for help if needed but far enough away to get some good shut-eye and discuss plans without whatever may be inside the citadel being able to listen in.